Pokemon: White Death
by YaBoiPutin
Summary: A child borne of the icy wastes of Snowpoint, a Sneazel left to die, a spirit that binds them both. This is the tale of Simo Thorsund, and his journey to greatness in the old land of Sinnoh. AU, will contain graphic violence, strong language, and suggestive situations in later chapters. 26APR20 This is the 2.0 version, more up to my standards and considerably darker in tone.
1. An Old Land

Authors Note: I was inspired to write this mainly by the work of Metal Dargon, his story Sacrifice and subjugation is one of the greatest stories I have read on this site, but the vast majority of this story stems from my own imagination in what I hope is a somewhat original take on the pokemon universe so do not take this as mimicking his ideas, world, or even general tone and writing style. I love to worldbuild and the relative openness of pokemon's lore gives me plenty of room to explore ideas, please leave constructive feedback and don't be afraid to tell me if shit sucks.

Please enjoy: Pokemon: the White Death

-YaBoiPutin

Edit: (26APR20) Following a particularly constructive review, my own rethinking of the plot, and actually writing out a full outline, I was deeply dissatisfied with the original two chapters and have rewritten them almost completely. While the general plot has remained largely the same, several key events are being changed to better fit this story's darker and gritty tone. So if you read the original chapters I recommend rereading from the beginning as the first arc is now completely different.

( )

Sinnoh was an old land, its people beheld old traditions, and the ruins of old civilizations that had predated the Sinnoh League (yet some were more recent) dotted the wilderness. One could be forgiven for believing Sinnoh, and much of the world in fact, to be remote, harsh, and devoid of people (if one counted humans as the only people). In fact, only a few generations prior, the human empires of old had been brought down in a storm of violence so horrific and nightmarish that those who survived spoke little of it, as if a creed or oath bound the old veterans and survivors into silence whenever the young dared ask of the Great War. The earth had been forever changed, almost all of mankind lost, reduced to small populations in scattered regions, hardly a fraction of what they were; little was remembered of the time before when humanity's power was at its height. But like all things, time marched forth, and humanity slowly found its place again, as it always does.

Sinnoh was the northernmost of these Regions, and by far the largest in terms of landmass (eclipsing the size of the Indigo League that governed Kanto and Johto almost thrice over), but among the most sparsely populated of all of them. Beyond the few cities and towns that dotted the landscape along the coasts, rivers, and ancient roadways, one could go a long time without ever knowing civilization existed in Sinnoh at all. Yet if one went to the farthest northern reaches, where the temperature never rose beyond freezing, a part of the land beyond the arctic circle, one could find the small city of Snowpoint.

Snowpoint had been built almost entirely around the Temple of its namesake relatively recently after the Great War, by an archaeological expedition that needed a base camp for their spelunking in the temple. However the extreme cold within kept them from the deepest levels, and the true builders and majority population of modern Snowpoint did not take kindly to the desecration of their sacred temple. Snowpointers, as they are known in the modern times, were once known as the Scyflings, a collection of tribes and clans that wandered the arctic circle and the farthest northern reaches by ship, ski, and sled dog; many had served the old Sinnoan Empire as mercenaries and privateers over the course of centuries but had retreated into the far north following the desolation of the Great War. They drove the Sinnoan intruders out at gun and blade point for their intrusion, chasing the archaeologists back to their ship with surprisingly no bloodshed. The Sinnoh League in those days was new and unstable, and could not expend the resources to take back the township but could not afford to look weak by just surrendering, so they negotiated a deal: the newly dubbed Snowpointers could keep the land if they acquiesced to the Sinnoh League's rule as an autonomous province; and after some discussion among the tribal leaders, the clans agreed to the league's terms if only to avoid the unnecessary devastation that a territorial conflict would bring.

In the years following Snowpoint grew to be a welcome outpost to the occasional traveler that managed to survive the trek over the mountains, and it was a valuable trade port that exported the precious metals and fossil fuels hidden below the northern ice sheets and within the ancient mountains; a pokemon gym that specialized in ice types soon emerged and took its place as one of the eight great gyms of Sinnoh, and the end point of an often deadly pilgrimage through the mountains for pokemon trainers seeking a challenge of survival. The town grew moderately wealthy and soon the Snowpointers, mostly the ones that lived in the city itself, began to adopt more Sinnoan customs and cosmopolitan attitudes, while the rural ones who often hunted for a living and preferred to live on the snowy wastes were regarded as hokums and backwards loons. For 'it's dangerous out there' was the oft-said exclamation shared by urbanite humans across the world, so to did it come to be said by the city dwelling Snowpointers too; for even if the regular wildlife was dangerous, pokemon, creatures who could harness forces mankind could scarcely understand also prowled the snowy wastes.

( )

One of these rural families resided in a small cottage, only fifteen miles south of Snowpoint (which of course in the local conditions, might as well been a hundred if one were on foot), an elderly grandfather and his twelve year old grandson. The elder's name was Simo Thorsund, he was a hardened veteran of the Great War, and in his time, a famous and feared marksman, but to a lesser degree a pokemon trainer whose promising career came to a tragic end that he never spoke a word of, as the pain it brought him was simply to great to relive. His wizened face was wrinkled with age and countless regrets, heavily scarred by his experiences in the war that shattered the world and the violence that followed as human civilization collapsed, his eyes were dark and intense almost like black coals set deep in his face. He rarely smiled, but to most he was a friendly if quiet old man, like most of his generation.

He took care of his grandson in the place of his daughter; who had been missing and presumed dead since the boy was around four years old, and the boys father, who the very thought of brought an angry scowl across his features if only for a moment. Simo Thorsund, like many things in his storied past, never spoke of what had happened to his beloved daughter, and only in his darkest and most alcohol ridden moments with what comrades he had left, expressed his hatred and disdain for the man his daughter had loved and yet had abandoned their son upon her death.

The old man's grandson resembled the grandfather who he was named after: a narrow face with a strong chin and like his surrogate parent (and many Snowpointers) his hair was white as the snow he grew up in. Yet there was a single stark difference, unlike his grandfather's black coal-like eyes, his were like his hair, an icy bluish white that stared with unnerving intensity, these eyes were rare even among Snowpointers and many of the more traditionally minded elders often spoke in hushed tones about the meaning of such eyes. Otherwise the young Simo grew up as most rural and wilderness children did: strong and healthy from constant exercise on his Grandfather's land and the chores that came with such an isolated lifestyle.

Simo had been educated well by his grandfather and the other elders who occasionally stopped by on snowmobiles or by dogsled to speak with the elder Simo. From the young age of six he could read and write on peer with children twice his age and recite information from his grandfather's textbooks as if they were printed into his mind, but mathematics always gave him a deal of trouble like many children like him. However, the elder Simo focused his grandson's education on the practicalities of life in the snowy wilderness and imparted his own passion for the natural world onto his charge. Simo developed a keen fascination with the natural world, but was taught not to shirk from its dangers or challenges.

At the age of eight, his grandfather purchased him a small single shot bolt action .22 rifle and began to teach him the art of hunting, "as all true Snowpointers should" he often said, and in the four following years had proven himself enough that his grandfather trusted him to hunt rabbits and other small game in the woods around their cottage on his own, but he would always be joined by his grandfather if he wanted to hunt beyond the confines of their land or take after bigger game, in such cases he would merely act as his grandfather's spotter, since his varmint rifle was not practical for bringing down larger game such as deer or defend him from wolves or even worse predatory pokemon such as Sneazel, their evolved forms of Weavile, the rare but fearsome Beartic, or the territorial Abomasnow who led snover clans across the tundra. It could not be said that the boy did not take after his grandfather as a marksman, and the old man hoped to mold him into as much an expert sharpshooter as he, but without the terrible lessons that could only be imparted by the experiences only war can bring.

Anywhere else the day would match the coldest winter evening, but to a Snowpointer, it was a pleasant October afternoon: a comfortable 9 degrees Fahrenheit and no wind chill. The younger Simo clutched the small rifle as he edged through the snow on his belly, he was trying to make it to the top of a slight rise in a snowbank where he could see just over the underbrush and into the trees of the woods not far from his grandfather's cabin, but would keep him hidden still. Even with his youthful inexperience, Simo would have proved hard to spot, he wore a white poncho over his grey thermal clothing, his head was covered by a white ski mask, his rifle had been spray painted a similar shade of white, and he shoved snow into his mouth to hide his breath, just as his grandfather taught him. It didn't take him long to settle into the bank, and he took a moment to get his rifle in position.

'Breath, survey, focus on movement or odd colors, identify target, aim, breath out, fire' the boy mentally repeated the steps his grandfather had drilled into his head as he scanned through the iron sights of his rifle. Soon a small snow rabbit hopped into his view, and he moved to aim the rifle down towards his quarry. He had done this hundreds of times before at this point and he waited for the rabbit to stop and sniff the earth before pulling the trigger.

POW!

The .22LR round had left the barrel before the sound had reached his ears and struck the snow rabbit in the abdomen, on a creature so small, such a wound was fatal almost instantly, and preserved the valuable flanks where the bulk of the meat lay. The small creature fell onto its back and twitched a few times in death before lying still.

Simo waited a moment before moving to approach his prey, it didn't move from where it lay, as it was surely dead: so he stood out of the bank to retrieve his kill, walking forward to grab it, he was unaware of the presence that had been stalking him for much of the afternoon.

( )

The young Sneazel that stalked Simo had done so with the full intention of stealing whatever the lad killed. It had followed and observed him from the shadows for the past week when the twelve year old had come out to hunt. The Sneazel was alone, and although in reality more than capable of slaying young Simo, it had never before seen what its kind had called: "The Fur-less Ones" and had no real understanding of what they could do or if it could bring one down, so it had watched him use the strange stick-like object that he carried to kill the small game he hunted; as such, the young pokemon played it on what it thought the safe side was and determined that it would be less risky to steal a kill rather than try and take down the young human. Right now, it thought, was the perfect opportunity: the human was excited by its kill and was not paying as much attention to its surroundings.

As the boy went forth to claim his dead rabbit, the Sneazel that called itself Runt leaped forth and put itself between the boy and the dead rabbit, its ice claws formed as much as the young one could make them and it hissed menacingly as it had seen its old gang do during similar thefts. To make the other hunter flee in terror rather than fight for their rightful kill. It did not occur to the young pokemon that it would have been a far safer and easier affair to simply steal the rabbit and run, as the thefts he had observed had been against wolves, bears, and breeds of predatory pokemon that were generally solitary and unwilling to fight a gang of his kind.

Simo jumped with a start and reflexively aimed his rifle at the interloper, belatedly realizing that he was facing one of the most feared pokemon of the surrounding mountains and tundra, a Sneazel. Simo's knowledge on the Sneazel line came to the forefront: ambush pack hunters who would happily prey on lone humans, especially children. This particular place was not an area they were known to frequent and Simo had never seen a live one beyond nature documentaries he occasionally watched with his grandfather, he had never anticipated encountering one so near his home.

Simo had no idea the pokemon was all alone and the fear of being surrounded by a Sneazel and Weavile gang made him look around feverishly, his rifle still raised. A primal terror within him took hold: he feared he was surrounded and there was no escape.

Meanwhile, Runt froze also in fear, it had seen what the human's rifle had done to its prey and believed it would also suffer a similar fate, unknowing that Simo, in his haste and fear, had not remembered to reload. The Sneazel had hoped the boy would run rather than respond with a threat display of his own. The two stood, paralyzed by the murderous potential of one another for a moment before Simo's terror addled brain made a hasty decision: to try and scare the Sneazel away with a warning shot. He aimed his rifle just to the left of the Sneazel and pulled the trigger.

CLICK

The realization of his mistake and what it potentially meant made Simo's stomach drop, his eyes now plainly showed his terror as he lowered his rifle slightly and his eyes locked with his antagonist, whose reddish eyes now glared with a wicked anger into his. Little did he know that even if he had actually fired, the vengeful natures that are universal among dark type pokemon, let alone the Sneazel line, would have also resulted in the altercation that was about to follow.

Runt, like all pokemon, was a sapient being, and quickly deduced that the human had just tried to attack him, its weapon had failed, and most of all: the pokemon could now see the terror in the young boy's eyes. Simo had just unknowingly escalated the encounter by proceeding from threat display to attempted attack. A rule that was instinctive to wild creatures was now broken, and this was now a fight. Runt, true to his nature, was now angry that the human would try to kill him as it had and leaped forward, ready to kill. The reality that it would have done something similar if the situation was reversed was lost on the juvenile Sneazel.

Runt rushed Simo faster than the human's eyes could ever track, the boy attempted to cover his face and neck instinctively, it was this and Runt's own inexperience as a fighter that saved his life. Simo screamed and fell on his back, as the pokemon's claws had missed his jugular, the intended target, and sliced open his right arm up to his shoulder through his jacket, the ice cold claws numbing the filleted flesh as blood poured forth.

This had been easier than the pokemon had thought it would be, Runt circled above the downed human, relishing in the terror of its now prey and the victory it thought it had claimed. Simo in his mortal terror memorized the face of what he thought would be his death, the scarred face of a juvenile Sneazel. Never once did it occur to him that he had not been attacked from his blind spots by a gang and that no others had come to the aid of his opponent. In a last ditch effort allowed by the dark type's laziness on making a killing blow, Simo grabbed the barrel of his rifle and swung it like a baseball bat. Runt saw this and decided to end it, but misjudged the human's speed: Instead of a windpipe opening slice from Adam's apple to chin, it struck the human boy in an upward arch from his chin, cutting apart his lips, to his right brow, just barely missing his eyeball, due to being hit in the side of the head with the butt of Simo's rifle. Simo stood, adrenaline pumping and he raised it again to defend himself as blood poured down his face from his wounds.

Runt flipped back up from where he lay and decided then and there that the killing of the human wasn't worth it, a tender lump forming on the side of its head in addition to a small cut dissuaded Runt from furthering the altercation. The young Sneazel turned and grabbed the dead rabbit before shooting off into the undergrowth, leaving Simo badly lacerated and without his prey. He was fortunate that Runt was so inexperienced and alone, adults of his kind would have never left him alive, wounded as he was.

Simo could barely feel the cuts due to the cold air and the frostbite that formed over his cuts but knew he was hurt badly and his jacket was shredded. As fast as he could slung his rifle over his left shoulder and took off towards his grandfather's cabin, blood trailing behind him from his arm and face in his adrenaline fueled sprint. He was justified in his haste, his grandfather was much more versed in first aid than he. Eventually he could no longer run, and staggered as quickly as he could to the clear hill where his grandfather's cabin stood. A pained "Help me!" escaping his mouth, quickly followed by a scream of pain as his lips, sliced so deeply by his assailant, parted agonizingly when he called for aid.

He could see his grandfather standing and running from his porch before he fell, unconscious from shock, blood loss, and exhaustion.

( )

Runt made off with the rabbit to its den, devouring the small mammal ferociously upon arrival. The dark ice type decided that the area was a good hunting ground and resolved itself to killing the little Fur-less One the next time it saw him, even though Runt had gotten what he had wanted, the clubbing had hurt him enough to, in his mind, justify killing the one that had done it and take its territory for himself. Then perhaps, it thought, it could find others of its kind and form a new gang.

Runt had been alone in these woods ever since he had been driven from his parental gang by his biggest sibling, Claw-of-White. He had been the runt of the litter sure, a position that among his kind was usually a death sentence, but Runt was a much more ruthless sort and tougher than his parents and gang elders had initially thought when they first gave him the demeaning name of 'Runt' upon his birth.

The second largest of his siblings had been called Sharp-Bite and was by far if not the biggest, the meanest of the clutch. From as soon as they could move and open their eyes, Runt had been the target of his and the rest of his sibling's violence. This was normal in a Sneazel clutch, the weak and peaceable of the siblings would eventually be killed and devoured by the bigger, more violent, and cunning of their brood. Those who survived would eventually be driven out to join other gangs, while the largest or most violent sibling would be allowed to stay with the gang of it's birth.

Sharp-Bite saw Runt as below his worry at first, the others would surely kill and eat the little one if he did not get around to it. Yet Runt lived, scarred and on constant alert, but lived. Runt fought his bigger siblings constantly and although did not always necessarily win, he stayed alive and grew in the esteem of the gang elders and his parents for his tenacity. Over time Sharp-Bite eventually saw him as a rival, a foe to be defeated in his own quest to usurp Claw-of-White as the alpha of their litter. He plotted to kill off his most troublesome and smallest sibling.

But Runt would not lay down and die.

The young Sneazel recalled that battle with pride, his bigger sibling struck him after their gang fed on a dead Caribou, and the two wrestled and attempted to claw the other's throat out as their parents and their gang watched; the conflict escalating rapidly from a minor insult to a duel to the death. Runt had attracted the attention of his elders, and all wanted to see if the vicious runt of the litter would win or be finally put to death like the runts of previous litters uncounted.

Sharp-Bite was bigger and stronger but Runt was smarter and much more agile, rolling over his brother as he charged and dodging rather than trying to grapple and scratch. The whole struggle lasted only a couple of minutes: Runt dodged out of the way of a wild lunge and used his brother's momentum against him by clothes-lining him, slamming Sharp-Bite into the snow onto his back. What happened next brought a small chitter of satisfaction to the young Sneazel: he mounted the chest of his brother, brought his claws down with a cry, and tore apart his rival's eyes in a flurry of scoop-like scratches directly into the eye sockets and face.

Sharp-Bite began to screech in agony and terror at his blindness and mutilation, Runt jumped off of him, leaving him to crawl and stagger around helplessly as the older Sneazels and their Weavile elders hissed and chattered their approval. Runt stood, claws coated in his brother's gore, and snarled at Claw-of-White, prepared to fight him as well; the win against the second best of his litter giving him the confidence to even dare to threaten his most domineering sibling. But his biggest and most violent brother was just as devious as he, and chose not to engage him in open battle, devising a plan to eradicate his now true rival on his own terms.

Sharp-Bite's blindness had rendered him a liability and waste of food to the gang, thus the elders slew and devoured him mere moments after Runt left him there in the snow, mewling pathetically in pain. It had seemed to Runt that he had finally turned things around for himself, that night the elder Weaviles chittered proudly to him rather than sneering their disdain at the sight of him or outright ignoring the juvenile, and his other siblings looked upon him now in fear and did not dare cross him; so Runt basked in his victory. That very night would prove to be Runt's undoing within the gang: as he slept, Claw-of-White attempted to slay him, but his scent awoke the young Runt before his throat could be opened, the two dueled but the runt of the litter was caught on the back foot, and Claw-of-White would not fall for his tricks. His rival cut him across the face, and to Runt's later annoyance, almost the same way he himself would later do to Simo Thorsund.

Runt realized during the duel that Claw-of-White would overcome him and chose to flee into the night, and never return rather than die. The gang and his parents would eventually forget about him, as was the nature of their kind. Runt spent the next few weeks trying to find safe haven and suitable hunting grounds; he traveled many days and sleepless nights, a mixture of good fortune and sheer will to live kept him alive until he came to the lands of the Thorsund family, where there were no marks on the trees or ice of other Sneazel or Weavile gangs.

It was this series of events that had led to his mauling of the young human, and set in motion a nightmarish ordeal that would change the lives of them both forever after.

( )

Simo's grandfather had been able to save him through a timely and experienced application of first aid, but it was not enough to ensure his recovery. He had called the family doctor, Dr. Caitlin Eddain, to assist in the speedy recovery of his grandson and to give him an infusion of Blissey egg essence. The good doctor was stern and uncompromising, with a notoriously blunt and grim bedside manner, borne from her years of front-line service within the Sinnoh League Federal Defense Force and many more as a trauma surgeon in Jubilife City. Snowpoint City did not have a hospital, and only extremely serious cases could be teleported or flown to the hospitals in the bigger cities in the south, as such: it was the norm for doctors to treat patients from home or their own small clinics, aided by the healer pokemon of the Happiny line. She had ensured that the young boy had no infections and made certain that the frostbite that had entered his wounds dissipated properly.

Simo awoke the next morning, and was met by the stony face of his grandfather, who's eyes briefly betrayed their relief at his precious grandson's awakening. The boy tried to open his mouth, and was met with the painful sensation of stitches pulling his face and lips together. He could only open it partway, just enough to be able to eat and speak softly without pain.

"You're a lucky man Mr. Thorsund" the voice of the family doctor snapped Simo's attention to her, her expression perpetually disappointed and judgmental, but Simo could tell she was relieved. He was familiar with the iron-willed and harsh woman, as he frequently wound up in her care following many outdoor misadventures. Her dark and beady eyes narrowed at him harshly, her graying hair usually pulled into a ponytail was frazzled by what Simo had learned to recognize as genuine worry, "Frostbite has thawed, and no infections, you are lucky that whatever it was that got a hold of you was clean enough but your formerly handsome face is going to have some rather impressive scars, try not to open your mouth too wide, the stitches in your lips might separate." She said 'Lucky' in almost a snarl. "Did you get it in your head to tangle with a wolf pack or harass a polar bear, what mauled you? You damned fool, always getting into some mess, I don't know why this old codger lets you roam the woods alone."

Her facade cracked into a look of shock and surprise when Simo answered, cutting off her tirade: "...Sneazel..."

There was silence for a moment, the doctor about to speak again but the elder Thorsund raised his hand. "What actually happened, are you saying you were attacked by a Sneazel gang, and escaped?"

Simo recalled the face of the pokemon that had done this to him with a flash of anger. He composed himself, it would do no good to shout his anger in his condition. "I had just shot a rabbit, when I went to get it, it jumped out in front of me and hissed. I got scared so I pointed my gun at it."

The doctor and elder looked at one another before back to Simo. "Go on" his grandfather urged.

Simo relayed the tale as best he could remember it, he was not interrupted. His grandfather's face became impassive once again, the doctor's one of more sincere concern.

"...And then I ran as fast I could home, and then I passed out at the bottom of the hill."

He awaited the reaction of his elders, would they be mad at him for what he did?

"You are lucky to be alive, and that Sneazel was alone." His grandfather intoned sagely.

Simo was about to respond, but then he remembered: He hadn't been assaulted or ambushed by other Sneazels or worse, Weaviles, as he fled or battled with his assailant.

"If it wasn't, we." He paused, "we would be finding the leftovers of your corpse." Several emotions flashed through his grandpa's eyes as if he couldn't settle on which one, but they returned to the stony almost emotionless expression they always contained.

The full realization of his, in reality, good fortune was sobering to the young boy.

"The way you describe it, it sounds like a very young one, probably recently orphaned or driven out by its siblings perhaps. This too close to our land, we will have to either kill or capture it and turn it in to the gym."

"We will?" Simo asked after his grandfather finished speaking.

"Indeed, if it claims these lands for its own, everyone who comes here, including us, will be in danger, especially if there are more of them or if it forms a gang with other orphans. Not until you are healed though, I will need your help on this son." He stopped when the doctor grabbed his arm and turned him around to directly face her.

"Are you kidding me, you old loon? Why not get Robert or Joe out here, they can help you, hell, I could help hunt the little monster that did this to him, if I-." the doctor whispered harshly, practically dragging the elder into the next room, Simo couldn't catch anymore than that as they left, the doctor's whispering growing increasingly frantic and angry.

"But you would ask it of your grandson?!" Came the doctor's sudden near shriek from the other room. Simo was startled by her sudden yell. His grandfather's reply was simple, but annoyance clear in his tone as his voice boomed:

"These lands will be his one day, he must learn. I will hear no more of this. Thank you for your services doctor, but if you have nothing else to say, begone."

This resulted in another flurry of insults and shouting but Simo ignored that for the presence in the room that he had somehow not noticed until that very moment: the Blissey that Dr. Eddain had brought with her and was likely responsible for his quick recovery from the blood loss. The pink healer pokemon approached his bedside and held up a syringe filled with a whitish liquid and trilled with a smile. The egg essence of their kind was almost a miracle cure for most common aliments and through some mechanism still unknown, could replenish the blood supply of the body even at the brink of death. As they were also quite intelligent and benevolent almost to a fault, rarely were they battle trained, instead they were utilized as medics and nurses. It was a rare sight indeed to see a pokemon center, hospital, clinic, or even veterinary offices that specialized in non-Pokemon animals without at least one of their line on staff.

"Hi Valkyrie, thanks for healing me." It was not the first time (and probably not the last) he had said those words and tried not to yelp when the pokemon gave him a second injection of egg essence into his right shoulder.

( )

**Six**** Weeks Later...**

Simo had healed, but as the doctor said: his face would be heavily and permanently scarred, but at least he could open his mouth all the way now despite the disfigurement. In the previous weeks, he and his grandfather (more his grandfather if he was honest with himself) had set up a plan of action for capturing this delinquent Sneazel. His grandfather decided it would be best if they captured it and turned it in to the Snowpoint City Pokemon Gym, and the current Gym Leader: Ivanov Johanson. Like most pokemon gyms, the Snowpoint gym was in constant need of juvenile pokemon to be given to apprentice trainers at the gym who would use them as their starter pokemon while they worked on their Journeyman Pokemon Trainer Licenses, even if only a few would ever even be qualified to attempt the examination.

To this effect, Simo's grandfather dug out his own, almost antiquated, Journeyman license; something that had surprised his grandson since he almost never spoke about his past, let alone his short-lived career as a trainer. The old man took a day trip to the city and had procured a pokeball and an air-powered tranquilizer rifle. When the fateful day came, the elder handed the tranquilizer gun to his grandson.

"Its been a long time since I've tracked Sneazel, but I haven't forgotten. You will hit it with the tranquilizer, and I will throw the pokeball. However, if one of us misses, I will draw my handgun and put it down. Stay with me and if we are ambushed do not run into the woods blindly, that's what it, or they, will want." The elder practically growled, he was not to be disobeyed, especially not in a situation such as this. Simo knew this, and merely answered: "Yes grandfather, I understand. I wont miss."

His grandpa patted his shoulder, "that's the attitude we need".

The two of them set off into the woods, at a slow pace while his grandfather searched for any sign of the Sneazel, the two were silent, fearful of giving away their position and intent. Simo let his grandfather work and stayed close but out of his way, mentally going over the information on Sneazel's he had read and his grandfather taught him over the past few weeks.

'Sneazel leave faint tracks and are smart enough to remain upwind of prey and enemies, they typically use ice manipulation to move like skiers over long distance, but, but if this one is young enough, he might not know that trick, look for faint indents that resemble a small Y shape, otherwise we will have to blind track and look for carvings on trees and in the ice sheets.'

'Sneazel and Weavile use a complex and likely regional system of symbols to leave messages and mark territory, those residing in Sinnoh's far north were used in Professor Sean Rowan and Professor Samuel Oak's groundbreaking study on Pokemon sapience that later proved their, at the time, widely derided theory that most pokemon were sapient creatures.'

All this rather academic information floating around his head was punctuated by a rather chilling answer he had gotten from his grandfather when he asked if he had ever hunted a Weavile: 'You don't hunt Weaviles boy, they hunt you. You can only pray that they decide you aren't worth the trouble or defend yourself when it comes calling. If there is one out there, which I doubt, it will likely come to us long before we ever find it.'

"Simo." The boy's attention was snapped to his grandfather and out of his day dreaming. "Pay attention, look here." The elder looked somewhat annoyed by his lack of attention but did not comment on it, more concerned with pointing out the very faint Y-shaped tracks that lay in the snow in front of them, hugging the trees where they could but this deep in winter, there was no longer any underbrush to hide them.

"These tracks must be recent if we can see them this clearly."

'Clearly?' Simo thought, 'I would have never even noticed them they are so faint.' He did not say anything but nodded his affirmation.

The pair followed the tracks for over three hours, losing them but finding them again twice. They were both on very high alert for ambush by not only their quarry, but also other wild animals and pokemon that could alert their quarry to their presence or attack them themselves.

Finally when the afternoon was reaching its end, they had a stroke of luck: the Sneazel may have been able to hide its den to the untrained eye, but even Simo could make out where its tracks descended into a hollow in the base of a tree trunk and did not come out. "We've got him son, now we wait, be ready with that dart gun, and wait for him to get a few paces from his den before you shoot him." The elder Thorsund practically whispered. Simo only nodded and laid in the snow with the rifle, prepared to get some payback against the creature that mauled him.

( )

Evening came, and Runt prepared to leave for his nightly hunt, but the creature was not hopeful. In the previous weeks since his encounter with the young Fur-less One, the winter had truly set in, food was so scarce he hardly ate only once every few days, he became thinner and thinner and he feared he would have to risk ranging farther than where he had established himself. However, despite his situation, he had become so confident that he hardly ever sniffed the air for threats when he left his den, his arrogance had grown since his attack on the Fur-less one. So when he slunk out from his den under the tree, it was only the instinctive feeling of being watched that told him anything was wrong, he looked to his left, his eyes falling on a snowbank that he did not remember being that large when suddenly the figure shifted and the scent he had not paid attention to caused his mind to ring in recognition: the Fur-less One!

PSHEW

Runt felt a sharp pain in his shoulder, he saw a strange dart embedded in his skin. Angered, and shocked that he had been tracked, he tried to charge, but his limbs felt so heavy, and suddenly numb. The pokemon staggered and tripped, falling into the snow on its belly, only just able to turn its head as its body began to relax and leave his control. Runt had never been so terrified in his entire life, and it only got worse when he realized as another figure emerged from the bank, that the one he had mauled and now had paralyzed him was not alone. But as he laid there, he heard a distant sound, one he had never heard before, and it seemed like his assailants did not notice the low and unnatural growling.

( )

Simo resisted a cry of victory for his shot and debilitation of the Sneazel, and his grandfather slapped him on the back in a rare display of paternal affection.

"Excellent shot Simo" the old man said as he stood behind the boy. "He might be awake but he isn't going anywhere for the time being. How thin he is, poor thing, this might be the best thing to happen to him."

"Thanks grandpa, are you going to capture it?" Simo asked as his grandfather made no move to throw a pokeball.

"No son, you are." He held out the pokeball he had purchased for this purpose. Simo stared in surprise.

"But I thought-" he started.

His grandfather cut him off: "This will make him legally yours, when we get home, I plan to enroll you at the Snowpoint Gym, Leader Ivannov and I will teach you everything you need to know to become a trainer, I know that's been your dream."

Simo could barely believe his ears, he hugged his grandfather tightly. He heard from in front of them the sound of snowmobiles but didn't pay it any mind, even when they seemed to come to a stop, it was normal for people to ride through this area. Letting go and with an encouraging shove from his elder, he prepared to throw.

BANG

Simo jumped as a gunshot rang out from the treeline in front of them, he was suddenly terrified as a group of scraggly men on beaten up snowmobiles emerged from the shadows, all armed, and one's rifle still smoking.

"Simo" the boy heard a shaky gasp and turned.

His grandfather clutched a reddening wound in his chest and almost as if in slow motion, toppled to the ground on his back, Simo couldn't tell if he was screaming or not, as he clutched his grandfather, the light fading from his eyes. He felt a hand grab his collar and turn him around, a raised fist, and all then all was dark.


	2. Prisoner

Well its been a long while, this story in not abandoned. As I'm sure everyone's life has been turned upside down by this insane year, mine was too. I spent many months at sea with no internet connection, and upon my return wound up moving across the planet into yet another isolated part of the world to do a completely new job which required months of retraining and even more on the job experience. So I have had almost no time to write, but fear not. Even if it takes me decades, which it hopefully wont, I do plan on finishing this story.

-YaBoiPutin

( )

When Simo awoke it took him a moment to realize that everything that had just happened wasn't some horrid nightmare, but the reality of his situation. He looked around himself and realized that he had been bound to a large and ancient oak tree, he had been taken somewhere deep in the woods, he was inside a makeshift tent that surrounded the massive tree he had been tied to, and across from him, chained to a post set deeply in the ground, was the Sneazel that he had tranquilized. It was unconscious and looked as if it had been beaten, dark blue bruises covered its body and its left eye was swollen shut. He, by comparison had gotten off comparably light, his nose was throbbing in pain and he could smell and feel where the blood of his broken nose clotted and froze, yet it had been bandaged and set into its proper place.

He could hear the sounds of what must have been dozens of people talking and moving about outside, and could smell something being roasted over a fire. Simo was filled with a cold terror, much worse than when he had encountered the Sneazel for the first time, for he came to the realization that he had been kidnapped by bandits. The snippets of conversation he could just barely catch seemed centered around his kidnapping and the murder of the 'Old Man' which he took to mean his grandfather. A grim and sad feeling cascaded through him, and he felt the tears well up and drip down his face at the remembrance that his beloved if cold grandfather was now dead in the snow courtesy of a brigand's rifle.

Although the Sinnoh region, along with most of the larger regions elsewhere in the world, was technologically advanced and economically strong, much of that power and wealth was confined to the few small cities that Sinnoh boasted, the rural towns that dotted along the routes all too often did not reap the benefits of their advanced society and often only survived by a bare thread through farming, mining, and local industry which refined raw resources produced by the aforementioned. Those who dwelled in these small towns were often kept employed by social connections and familial ownership of said businesses, otherwise powerful labor syndicates, (and to a smaller extent, aristocrat families) controlled most of the larger mining, farming, and industrial operations of rural areas in the Sinnoh region. Employment for those without the social connections, such as outsiders and other social outcasts, especially those with criminal records, could be extremely fickle, and so many took to banditry. Smaller bandit gangs were often consumed by larger ones who would then consume others or be consumed themselves to form veritable hordes that wandered the uncharted lands of the Sinnoh Region, and those that survived the harsh wilderness and violence of their lifestyles were often experienced survivalists and guerrilla fighters, and as such, were often hired or recruited by rebel and terrorist groups that formed from time to time (indeed, even the Sinnoh Ranger Corps often recruited directly from captured bandits in exchange for reduced or commuted sentences) in the midst of the political turmoil that frequently rocked the region's upper echelons.

Bandit gangs also could take many forms, while in the tundra and deep woods of Northern Sinnoh bandits rode by ski and snowmobile, some who lived on the warmer steppes lived as the legendary khans of the ancient times: from horseback, others who dwelled in the woodlands and swampland of the south traveled by foot or boat (often called River Pirates), and rarer in the current age but still occasionally seen despite the League's control of the main roads: motorized bands of road warriors and biker gangs who preyed upon unprotected truck convoys and unfortunate travelers.

In the generations prior, armies of bandits and brigands were the largest menace of the more civilized portions of the Sinnoh region in the wake of the Collapse, even more so than powerful wild pokemon. Towns could be looted and scattered to the wind without justice or recourse, cities held under siege, isolated farming hamlets extorted or held for ransom, and even the shipping convoys that traveled the official routes were not safe from the brigand hordes, so secure were the roads in the grip of the bandit warlords that rose following the old Empire's apocalyptic collapse. But the Sinnoh League had gone on what many now called the "Cleansing": The Ranger Corps, local city police and county militias, the Army, and untold numbers of vengeful civilian volunteers turned mercenaries, even the Gym Leaders with their retinues, led by the old Champion Atillus Borodin himself with the Elite Four at his side, all eager for payback against the menace that plagued the land for so long. In the end, they had won, the routes made safe and the cities secure, the small towns that dotted the land no longer feared the howl of engines in the night or strangers at their gates. Yet even this could not fix the root cause, and although they had never since been as powerful or organized, they were still the nightmare of isolated hamlets and travelers who dared to veer off of the established routes and into the less secure trails and uncharted wilds.

Most of this mattered very little to Simo, bandits had not been seen in the lands of his grandfather since long before he had been born, as the Gym Leader Ivannov and his predecessor were particularly ruthless in ensuring their extermination decades prior following the Second Battle of Snowpoint. Questions such as why they were this far north, away from the deep woods and mountain ranges that were largely uninhabited by civilized folk, why he had been kidnapped, and why they hadn't simply been mugged did not cross his mind in favor of simpler and more immediate questions: 'What are they going to do to me? Why did they shoot grandpa? Why is the Sneazel here?' The Sneazel in question began to stir, and sluggishly attempted to rise to its feet. Simo said nothing as the little pokemon failed to stand, falling on its rear, and almost as an afterthought: looking towards the boy in front of it, which made it freeze suddenly and then bear forth its claws of ice.

( )

Runt's morning had gone from bad to worse in a matter of moments after the other gang of Fur-less Ones arrived, it did not matter to him that they slew the older one and beat his younger assailant into unconsciousness, they did not take kindly to his presence either when they realized he was alive and sedated; so they beat him until he was also unconscious for good measure. He had nightmares of his early cub-hood, of the predations of his brothers and sisters, and now of being paralyzed by this Fur-less One. When he awoke he knew he could move, but it was so very painful, and there was an unwelcome presence weighing down his neck. He drew in a sniff but his sense of smell was muted from the stench of his own blood and the succulent scent of raw meat, fresh from a kill, somewhere near. The pokemon tried to make it to his feet, eyes shut as pain coursed through him from the exertion and the unfamiliar cold weight on his neck pulled him down onto his behind. He opened his right eye, his left swollen shut, and looked about before his eyes fell on the Fur-less One that had caused him so much trouble.

He froze, examining the boy's predicament: restrained to a tree by strange binds, and they both were sat in a warm enclosure that every instinct told Runt was unnatural. Rage welled up in the little pokemon and with a hateful snarl lunged at the human in front of him, ice claws ready to finish what he had started that fateful day six weeks before.

Yet he was cut short by both the pain of moving and the heavy thing on his neck, which he realized kept him restrained to a strange spike in the ground. He turned and crawled to what kept him prisoner and pulled with all his might, trying to free himself, to escape and get his revenge on the Fur-less one who now glared at him just as hatefully, and spoke in their strange tongue.

"You're too weak to pull that out."

Runt did not understand what exactly the Fur-less one had said to him but he did certainly understand an insult when he heard one, no matter the language. He whirled around and snarled back at the boy, growling in his own tongue that he WOULD free himself and he WOULD get his revenge.

( )

Simo glared back at the Sneazel, who snarled and growled at him after he uttered his admittedly petty, childish, and rather pointless taunt. Part of his mind questioned the merit of arguing with a pokemon that couldn't really understand him and he couldn't understand in turn either; but yet his emotions, usually so controlled and icy as his grandfather encouraged came boiling out all at once, and Simo let forth an angry tirade:

"Shut up! It's your fault that we're here, if you had never come to our land none of this would ever have happened! I wouldn't be here and grandpa would still be alive! But he's dead all because we had to find you 'cause you mauled my face! I wish you had never been born! I HATE YOU!"

Simo's eyes were watering and he slumped back against the tree as tears fell forth, he sobbed, but not for long. A heavy stomping came through the flap of the tent with a shout of:

"You stop that gods damned racket boy!"

Simo looked to see a large older man standing over him menacingly, he was grizzled and scarred, covered in poorly stitched clothing made of what looked like bear furs and what remained of some winter jackets, he was huge and muscular from what Simo could see but even now the boy could see the considerable limp in his left leg from what was obviously a previous knee injury that likely never healed properly. His dark and malicious eyes narrowed before his meaty right hand swung out backhanded.

SMACK!

Simo saw stars and he could feel a welt forming on his forehead from the man's knuckles and it took him a moment to stare back up at his captor.

"Now you listen now and you listen good boy. If you don't want to wind up like your grandpappy you'll stay quiet and in those binds, if you behave yourself we might untie you but don't get any ideas: you'd never make it back to Snowpoint, nobody will find you out here, these woods belong to the Fontovik Clan and you ain't going nowhere until we either get your ransom, or someone looking for a nice, good looking, little Snowpointer boy pays some good money for you, but I doubt that considering how fucked up your face is. You do something stupid or piss me off enough and I'll kill you like I killed your grandpa and feed the scraps to this little monster if one of the pit fighter rings doesn't buy him first. You understand?" His voice was that of a southern Sinnoan, likely from Pastoria, but Simo couldn't really tell, his voice rough and raspy from what was probably a lifetime of cigarette smoke.

"I SAID: DO YOU UNDERSTAND BOY?!" the older bandit screamed, much of his spittle flying into Simo's face, the rest getting caught disgustingly in his unkempt beard.

"I understand.." Simo whimpered meekly but glared with eyes full of primal hate, the man it seemed did not care what his answer was, as the old bandit turned and limped from the tent with a huff.

Runt simply stared at the boy after the large and rather loud Fur-less One left, his anger at his fellow prisoner clashing with a rather alien feeling: sympathy. But a more pragmatic line of thought grasped the creature: if this gang of Fur-less Ones would do this to one of their own kind, what would they do to him? It occurred to him that a rival gang of his own kind would probably have been even less merciful, and they certainly would not have left the Fur-less One cub alive, but that still begged the question: What was to happen to him?

He struggled some more at the restraints, but could not break free. So the pokemon resolved to simply sleep, for there was little else to do and he was growing tired after all. The pokemon curled into a ball, and remained that way until nightmares of being hunted and paralyzed overtook him.

( )

It was a solid two hours before anyone entered their tent again, the time passed agonizingly slow to Simo, who could hardly adjust himself in his binds. His stomach growled as he counted the tan stitching on the tent's seams for what seemed like the millionth time. He was startled when a new voice called from the flap of his canvas and reindeer fur prison.

"Hey." Simo looked towards who had come into his cell, and was moderately surprised by the cleanliness of the lanky and shaven young man who entered his vision, a bowl of what smelled like a meat stew of some kind in his left hand.

The young adult, or teen perhaps, was dressed in what looked like woodland pattern hunting gear that had honestly seen much better days, a moccasin hat resting atop his head. He smiled disarmingly at Simo, who after his previous visitor, whose gaze held nothing but distrust, hatred, and although he wouldn't admit it even if it was obvious, terror.

"Hey man, I'm just giving you two food, nothing malicious here." the newcomer entered slowly, seemingly careful not to make sudden movements. With his right hand he revealed a slab of venison, the scent of which awoke the restlessly sleeping Sneazel. The pokemon glared with suspicion, but quickly caught and tore into the meat whence it was tossed in a leisurely arch from where the newcomer stood. Standing out of reach of the vicious creature, the young man crouched with the bowl of soup, a spoon, grabbed out of a pocket, in his hand.

Simo could see where this was going and made no move to cooperate. Childish refusal to eat his only real form of rebellion against his captors.

"Come on kid, it'll make this worse for the both of us unless you just eat, I cant let you starve yourself in good conscience."

"Good conscience?! Where was that when you people shot my grandpa?!" Simo couldn't help himself, his anger burning red on the edges of his vision.

"… I should have seen that coming. Look kid, my name's Nicolas, you can call me Nick. I can tell you right now that me and a lot of the other guys don't like what Hugh did to your grandpa, much less what's being done with you, but we need the money or we're all dead."

The silence was deafening.

"And if I have to let that old crippled bastard sell you to whatever demonic pedo ring he's trying to get in touch with to keep from getting my throat slit over another man's debt then I'll do it. I'm sorry alright." He seemed to be more or less trying to convince himself of that rather than his gang's hostage. Even Simo could see that, but the boy certainly had no response to that other than for tears to fall, both at his intended fate, and the whole situation.

'I won't cry, I can't cry. Not anymore.' He thought as he forced himself to stop crying, the tears that had already fallen formed a small sheen down his cheeks. He looked away.

"Fuck man…" he heard a sigh "Look just let me feed you, and I'll… I'll try to help you, this shit ain't right." When Simo looked back up, the bandit called Nick lifted the spoon of stew to his lips, he acquiesced and allowed himself to eat the provided sustenance. It was gamy and bland, but it sated his pained stomach and warmed his belly. With the aid of his new supposed ally he ate until there was none left in the bowl, after which Nick left, and Simo would not see him again until the next morning.

Simo barely slept that night, his position was not conducive to good sleep, and his emotions would have probably kept him awake regardless. He envied the Sneazel, who despite thrashing and whimpering in his slumber, at least got some rest.

He was untied the next morning by another bandit who did not introduce himself but explicitly told the boy that there would be consequences should he leave the tent. So he had nothing to do but pace, lost in thought, his mind wandered back to his dream: of being a Pokemon trainer, and if he would live to see it. Simo remembered when he first told his grandfather, two years earlier. Rather than dismiss him with mutterings of youthful fantasy, the elder Thorsund sat him down and explained as best he could to a ten year old the true dangers of Pokemon training, saying: "Don't listen to the damn Sinnoan TV channels, training pokemon is not glamorous, the coordinators down in Hearthome have whole crews dedicated to caring and training of their creatures, which are always the least dangerous and most cooperative of their kind. Hell most of the sport battlers are the same way. There's a reason so few do it the true way."

"Why grandpa? Whats the true way?" Simo had childishly asked.

"Because its a life of hardship, suffering, isolation, and death. Real trainers, not the ones you see on TV telling your whole generation to sign up for their nearest Gym's apprentice program, don't often last long, they live hard in the wilds, and often get killed by the creatures they think they can tame. Think son, you've seen the championship battles, do you really think the elite four, the gym leaders," he paused "the champion himself. Got where they are from pageantry and televised grand standing, real trainers are out training and risking their lives for years to get where they are, and quite a few don't make it." he reiterated his prior point but did not expound on what he meant by 'The True Way'.

"Simo. Take it from an old man, unless you are prepared for the harsh life ahead of you, do not go down that path lightly. I would know, and I suffered for it."

The old man's grandson had no real response, how could he, and it was the first time his grandfather had disclosed that he had been a trainer at one point, a member of what was regarded as the modern warrior aristocracy among the more traditional of his own people.

"But didn't you also-" Simo had learned some of the details of his Grandpa's own reputation among the older generation and sought to connect the dots so to speak.

"Yes" his elder stated sharply, cutting off the rest of the question, "It made me an arrogant fool, with delusions of invincibility." Simo Karteski Thorsund said no more, leaving his grandson to mull over what he had been told.

Now years later, Simo pondered those words yet again, and looked to the pokemon that was imprisoned with him. Anger welling up but yet, in the back of his mind, a more rational line of thought began to creep forth: 'If I want to escape, I'll need help. More than just Nick.'

When dinner came, a bandit brought a bowl of stew and left, giving nothing to the Sneazel, who glared as Simo began to eat. The boy tried to turn his back, but the pokemon's icy stare and hungry expression brought forth something for the creature he had tried to quash: sympathy. Simo tried to tell himself that what he was about to do was to gain the creature's trust so it wouldn't kill him the second they escaped. But if he was honest with himself there was a deeper truth: Simo thought it was cruel to eat in front of a hungry person (even an animal if he was honest) and not offer something. He gathered his resolve and made the first step to try and ally with his fellow prisoner.

( )

Runt saw one of the older Fur-less ones bring forth that strange liquid that he recognized as food they gave to the cub he was imprisoned with. He waited for anything to be offered to him, but no, they left without giving him anything. This made the small pokemon rather angry, but rather than waste his energy in a futile attempt at lashing out from where he was chained, he sat and glared at his fellow prisoner. The fur-less cub first met his eyes, his angry red meeting the human's ice white. It was in that moment Runt realized his own facial scarring matched the wound he had given the young boy. This irritated the small pokemon, he didn't want to notice the things they had in common, like being orphans, prisoners, and shared facial scarring, he wanted to hate this fur-less one with everything he had.

He snarled viciously as his companion stood and determinedly marched over to just out of reach, Runt growled and spat. How dare this weak cub taunt him! He would make extra sure to-

He cut off his display in disbelief, the fur-less one had put the bowl on the floor and slowly edged it over to the young sneazel, the succulent meaty stew still left sloshed gently from the movement. Runt couldn't help it: his expression went from one of violent rage to one of visible confusion as he looked at his former foe. This was not how things worked, he was supposed to hog the food for himself, rather than help an enemy, let alone one of a different race entirely.

To the young Sneazel, the act of sharing was only done under the threat of violence, as was most forms of cooperation in Sneazel and Weavile gangs. Only the closest of companions and life-couples shared food of their own volition among his kind, as prey would be torn to pieces and the gang's members would only eat what they could rip from the corpse before others got to it first. Rather unwittingly, Simo had performed one of the highest acts of reconciliation that Runt's kind recognized, and one that Runt had never personally experienced after he had opened his eyes for the first time, and only witnessed between his birth parents after. Said Sneazel's thought process had been entirely derailed as he switched between staring at the bowl of stew and the human boy who offered it to him, who had absolutely no inkling of what his (in his mind) rather mundane gesture meant to the pokemon.

Runt remained utterly silent as the ice claws that coated the two prehensile fingers on each paw receded to enable him to grab the bowl and pull it towards himself. He tasted the strange food, and found it to his liking, lapping up the warm liquid and eating the cooked meats that floated in it rather gingerly despite his previously savage demeanor. After eating his fill, which had been more satisfying than the scrap of meat he had received in the morning, he couldn't help himself and let out a happy chitter, his eyes afterward immediately locking with his fellow prisoner, who had remained rooted to his spot, watching the pokemon eat; almost daring him to mention the noise. Runt hadn't meant to express himself like that.

( )

Simo couldn't help himself, he snorted at the Sneazel's happy vocalization, it was such an uncharacteristic sound for such a violent and vicious creature, like that of a chipmunk or squirrel. He and the creature locked eyes again, this time he noticed a strange questioning edge to the stare. Truly it was the first time he realized (although he logically knew) that this was a sapient creature, more than a mere animal, and much more intelligent and emotional than he had initially realized.

He felt as if he needed to say something but didn't and turned away, laying down out of reach of his companion.

For the next few days, things settled into a routine. Simo would either be woken by a captor bringing him his breakfast or by his own nightmares, then would either pace the tent or attempt to sleep, curled under a ratty fur blanket that had been draped over him while unconscious after the second night, despite the daylight and noise of the outlaw camp, and in the evening he would be given stew, which he would always eat half of and offer the rest to his fellow prisoner when his captors left. Despite being held captive, he was almost never visited beyond an occasional guard poking in their head to check on him. He did not see the disgusting Hugh at any point, but was certain he heard his voice shouting at others outside. He never saw hide nor tail of Nick for the duration of that time, and he never brought him any meals after the first time.

As for the Sneazel, Simo's anger at the creature had begun to subside in earnest, and he gave up trying to hate the creature. He had no way to tell what the creature thought of him in any measure, he dared not get closer to it than necessary. But yet, the boy did note that the pokemon no longer glowered at him maliciously or snarled when he looked its direction. However that did not mean he trusted the thing: Dark types in general could be deceptive and Sneazel were certainly clever plotters; he was not willing to risk life and limb to make further overtures of friendship at that point.

Things changed after the fifth day, after a particularly quiet afternoon, Nick returned to give Simo dinner. The young man poking his head through the tent flap and giving a small yet earnest smile. He seemed much more conflicted than he had the last time Simo had seen him, and rather than stand sat down with the boy.

"Here's your dinner, anybody come to bother you at all, has Hugh hurt you any?" He questioned, his voice spitting out the sentence much more rapidly than he had probably meant. He ran his hands through his brown hair nervously, displacing his moccasin hat, and his hazel eyes flickered to the tent flap.

"No…" Simo answered cautiously. He had not once been bothered since Hugh's initial assault, but he attributed that to not causing any trouble. He knew there was no escape. Nick seemed to want to speak more, as he shifted, clearly uncomfortable, but instead stood back up after sitting in awkward silence as Simo ate the stew, the same bland one of venison and potatoes he had been given had every night.

"Well. That's good, keep behaving yourself and don't cause no trouble. Please. I'll uh, ah. Try to visit you more often kiddo, if I can." The young bandit walked out of the tent, and when his steps finally dissipated, Simo looked over to Runt.

The Sneazel had gotten used to the routine, and had been pacing impatiently during the perceived interruption. He looked at Simo expectantly, cocking his head and chattering quietly. The boy quickly moved to push the bowl over, but this time going a lot slower and reaching farther into the pokemon's reach than he normally would, rather experimentally.

Runt stared as the bowl was slid towards him, the contents of the wooden bowl's aroma reaching his nose. Runt reached out and grabbed the bowl but felt a strange and warm presence, both Sneazel and human froze as Runt realized he had been hasty and grabbed the Fur-less One's hand, which still clutched the wooden bowl.

Compared to his own, the appendage was very warm and much softer than Runt had imagined, and the thought of how strange it would be to have five fingers flashed briefly in the creature's mind for a moment before the appendage was slowly pulled from his grip.

Simo traveled through a few emotions when the pokemon grabbed his hand, firstly fear, but then a strange sense of confusion, and finally with a breath of resolve, courage. As he took back his hand from the cold and surprisingly gentle two fingered grip of the small pokemon, he stood back up and looked upon the Sneazel he had been stuck with. Perhaps it was the physical connection, but he couldn't be angry with the pokemon anymore, even the irrational line of thought that it was all the pokemon's fault fading into the background as Simo had a realization that most do not make until they are far older, and some do not make at all:

The world is a cruel place, and sometimes terrible things happen to regular people for seemingly no reason. All of them had been in the wrong place at the wrong time, and they had been victimized simply because there had been an opportunity.

Runt did not touch his food, staring up at the human boy he had been trapped with. He too found himself unable to be angry or even vengeful despite himself, and the pokemon had an epiphany as well:

The situation would only be worse if they focused their anger at one another, and perhaps they would need each other to survive an escape attempt. The boy's act of kindness deserved some reciprocation, even if it was an almost alien concept to the young Sneazel. Runt decided then and there: even if this would only be a temporary alliance, and despite everything that had happened to them over the previous days and that fateful day weeks ago: they had become gang, and when they escaped, he would let him go unharmed.

The human stared and slowly pointed at himself and said four words that made no sense to the pokemon at first:

"My name is Simo." The white eyes locked with the red, another awkward staring match ensued.

Runt then understood: this was the Fur-less one's name, the emphasis on the last word 'Simo' clear even to him. It was strange yet made sense, his kind couldn't have been the only ones with names after all. His kind never bothered to learn the names of the other creatures of the frozen lands, aside from the Wooden-Ones, all else was prey.

Even among the wild gangs that prowled the ice, it was impolite to refuse to give one's name after another had introduced themselves. So Runt did so, but to Simo it sounded as just another round of chattering as the pokemon pointed at itself, in a rather uncanny mimicry of Simo's own gesture.

Although Simo clearly understood, and was rather surprised to find himself excited by the prospect, that the Sneazel had seemed to understand (at least the intention of) what he had said, but also had responded in kind. Of course he had no way of even mimicking the noises that had been spoken to him, let alone decipher their true meaning, so he decided to simply name the creature himself, it was getting annoying to refer to it as 'the Sneazel'. So he pointed gently at Runt and said the first thing that came to mind when he saw the creature: "Skar". It was then that he truly noted for the first time, that the pokemon's own facial scarring was an almost perfect match to the ones the creature had left upon on him during their first encounter. The fleeting thought of fate crossed his mind for a moment, but left, more impossible coincidences had happened after all.

Runt was not sure what to make of the name that this 'Simo' had given him, that wasn't the name he had told the Fur-less One. Yet, the meaning came clear: Simo lightly (and unthinkingly) gestured at the pokemon's face. Among his kind, scars were a symbol of glory, survival, and willingness to endure, even from battles lost. Runt decided he liked that name better, no-one would ever take him seriously as 'Runt' a name meant to mark him for death, to demean him for his size, and bemoan his perceived weakness. 'Skar' was a much better name, and in that moment. The Sneazel known as Runt died, and in his place: Skar was born.

It was strange, the two of them in their awkward and imprisoned glory. One, a mere child of the race that fancied itself the rulers of the earth, and once had been; the other: a runt of a race of vicious killers gifted with the manipulation of ice and darkness. Bound by the need to escape alive.

( )

Another three days passed uneventfully, but on the evening fourth day; Nick returned, this time walking tall and triumphant. He handed Simo the bowl of stew with a bright and snaggle-toothed smile and bent down to whisper only something upon seeing the child's questioning stare:

"Tomorrow me and some others will get you out of here, just no matter what happens stay down and wait for me and only me. I'll make things right."

As quickly as he came he left. Simo was excited by the prospect of freedom, but a thought occurred to him. Nick was still an outlaw bandit, even if he was benevolent at that moment. What exactly was to happen after he was freed from Hugh's vile machinations, and he also realized: what would become of Skar? He doubted the bandits would be as charitable to the pokemon.

He laid down to sleep after he and his new friend finished their portions of the stew. Skar had begun to fill out and no longer looked so thin and unhealthy, his small crest above his ear a healthy crimson rather than a pale pastel red. Although Simo wouldn't dare attempt to pet the creature even after all the progress they had made, he certainly felt an urge now to give affection like one would to a particularly cute cat or dog. 'Perhaps,' he thought, 'maybe if we get out of this I might train him after all'. Yet he was hardly able to sleep that night, the anticipation of Nick's vague rescue attempt excited and frightened him. He tried his best to communicate what was happening to Skar, but the pokemon just looked at him confusedly, his human tongue falling on deaf ears. He gave up with a sigh and eventually fell into a light sleep.

But not for long.

The yelling outside was the first indication that something was wrong. Simo and Skar awoke and heard the hostile and overlapping shouting. So much so that it was indecipherable but he thought he heard both Hugh and Nick's voices within the cacophony, but it did not last long. As a gunshot rang out, there was silence for all of three seconds, and Simo dove to the ground as a storm of gunfire broke out. He could recognize the booms of long rifles and shotguns, the claps of handguns, and on occasion: the chatter of a sub-machine gun.

Skar, lay on the ground clutching his sensitive ears, the weapons of the Fur-less ones were so loud he could hardly stand to open his eyes against the thunderclaps made against his eardrums.

In the midst of the bursts of gunfire, the screams of men, and running footsteps, Simo crawled around the base of the tree in the center of the tent in order to take whatever cover he could no matter how rudimentary.

The few minutes the gunfight lasted seemed like hours the two prisoners, on at least two occasions stray rounds burst through the canvas of the tent, leaving holes that let in more of the morning light. Eventually though, all fell silent, and Simo ventured to stand up. He looked over to Skar, who let go of his ears and stood but froze, looking in the direction of the tent flap. It was probably the ringing in their ears that kept them from hearing the crippled man's approach, but Simo certainly heard his opening tirade, making him whirl to face the man.

"You. All this, for you. That stupid bastard Nick, him and his boys mutinied for your sake boy. And now… Everyone. Is. Dead. But me, and you." The older man snarled, stepping forward with his limp. Simo could see he was wounded, his left hand clutching his belly while the revolver in his right was aimed at Skar.

"NO!" Simo shouted as the weapon fired, he only saw out of the corner of his eye the pokemon thrown to the ground by the shot.

A hot rage filled him, his grandfather had been killed by this man and his bandits, the one who tried to save him was also supposedly dead, and now this wretched individual had shot Skar, the pokemon he dreamed of training when he escaped. Simo's vision was red at the edges, his ears still ringing, and he breathed harshly, his rage building to a boiling point.

"Look at you huff and puff like some goddamned Tauros bull, too bad you'll die like a dog instead, all this trouble that you've brought." Hugh pointed the rusty barrel of his gun at Simo and pulled the trigger.

CLICK

With a huff of indignation, the bandit threw the pistol to the side, where it thudded into the dirt, and drew a long Bowie knife from his belt. He took a step towards the boy, but it flipped a switch in Simo, the fight or flight reaction had activated, and Simo chose to fight. Even in his almost inhuman rage, his reddened vision fixed on the weak knee of the elder bandit, and with a scream, Simo charged.

Hugh was caught off guard by the child's rush, and howled in agony when Simo's booted foot collided with the side of his bad knee, hard enough that it popped inward and shattered with a wet snapping noise.

The bandit fell to the ground like a felled tree clutching his broken knee, and in his fury Simo pounced, howling with rage, mounting the chest of the older man and snatching the blade from the ground. Clutching the handle with both hands, he plunged the blade into the outlaw's chest. He stabbed, and stabbed, and kept stabbing long after the old man was dead. Finally the red haze subsided enough that Simo stopped, pulling the blade out after one final stab. He fell backwards after standing and taking a few steps back, Simo was all at once horrified by all the blood, terrified at what he had just done, and in a way that frightened him more than the act itself: Satisfied and pleased that the man was dead. He laid on his back for a moment, and was surprised to see a familiar face suddenly stare at him from above: Skar!

The pokemon had a rather rough and bleeding gash on the top of his head, the bullet had simply grazed him. The red eyes of the creature filled with almost: Concern, with a tinge of amusement perhaps? He moved aside when the boy stood back up.

Simo took a few minutes to get a grip on himself, successfully fighting the urge to vomit at the many wounds he had inflicted on his attacker, and at the amount of still warm blood he was covered in. He heard no movements from outside, aside from the rustle of the snow covered branches and the howl of the cold steppe winds. A chitter stirred him from his stupor, and he turned to look at his companion, who stared up from where he was chained almost expectantly.

'Oh, the chain.' he thought as he looked down at Skar, his vision shifted over to the corpse he had made. 'He probably has it, if not I'll have to figure some other way to let Skar go.' It was then he noticed he still clutched the bloodied knife in his left hand. He looked at it, his white eyes reflecting back from the flat the blade through the gore. It's handle of oak and pommel of ivory, stained red like his hands.

Shaking, he cut the sheath off of Hugh's belt, and placed it on his own before gingerly searching the rest of the man's body. Fortuitously, he found a ring of three keys in the dead man's breast pocket. Simo turned to look at Skar, who looked up at him with an odd expression.

( )

Skar was impressed, although he had no real understanding of a human's physical capability; in his mind, Simo had just accomplished the equivalent of a young juvenile Sneazel killing a Weavile Elder, a wounded and old one yes, but he had just slain a social superior regardless. The young Sneazel thought that Simo would perhaps make a good Alpha of a gang offhandedly. He watched the boy get his bearings but got impatient and chattered, logically this old Fur-less one would have the means to release him from this horrid bind that kept him imprisoned and weighed down by the neck, in his own way insinuating that Simo should hurry up and search the corpse.

When the boy turned with a strange ring with the metal shapes that dangled and clanked, Skar was slightly apprehensive about letting him get that close but resigned himself to relying on the companionship and trust they had built in the previous week. The boy hesitated, and even Skar could tell he was unsure and afraid to approach. Annoyed by his slowness, Skar pointed with one of his prehensile fingers at the collar that kept him chained.

( )

Simo was at once startled and amused by the impatient and intelligent expression the pokemon wore as it pointed at it's chained collar. So he quashed his vestiges of fear and decided to take the chance that Skar wouldn't kill him, and approached slowly. The pokemon didn't make any untoward moves or rapidly reform his ice claws.

Taking that as a good sign, he knelt and reached out. Skar flinched at the approaching hand but otherwise did not move, again seeing no reason to retreat: Simo traced his hand carefully along the collar, and feeling the cold and coarse fur that flowed around it, until he found the latch, two of the keys were far to large to make sense, and fortunately for them the remaining key unlocked the collar with a small clank.

As soon as it clicked open, Simo practically jumped back when Skar grasped the device and tore it from his neck, hissing and spitting at it, and then stomping on it, unburdened by its weight.

Simo stood back up as Skar seemed to remember that he was free, the two stared at each other for a moment before Skar darted past Simo and into the world outside. Simo hurriedly chased after him, only to stop moments after leaving the tent, horrified at the scene before him:

The bandit gang lied dead all around the camp, some lay where they had fallen, others had dragged themselves a small ways before expiring, their blood freezing in the cold to form vast red pools. Immediately at his feet was a face he had earnestly hoped to see alive: Nick, his eyes staring unblinkingly upwards, the bullet hole that ended his life like a third eye that stared accusingly from his forehead.

Simo couldn't breathe, his breath hitched in his throat as he stared at the scene around him. This coupled with what had just occurred in the tent pushed Simo over the edge, he panicked. The boy made a crucial mistake, he ran, without care to where he was going: deep into the icy white wastes that lay just outside of the forests, the cold and unforgiving frozen steppes of the lands beyond the Coronet Mountain Range.


End file.
